


The Fall of Camelot (Rewrite)

by flowerofnettles



Series: Seo Gaestlufe/The Soul's Love [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur doesn't die AU, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fic Rewrite, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Love, M/M, Merlin AU, Merlin as Court Sorcerer, Merlin/Arthur - Freeform, Merthur - Freeform, Protective Merlin, Romance, bear with me, canon AU, first in a series, i'm still learning this tag system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofnettles/pseuds/flowerofnettles
Summary: Canon AU. Merlin has been court sorcerer for many years when he and Arthur return from the great final battle at Camlann. They are both shocked to find Guinevere has died in childbirth...along with hers and Arthur's infant son. After the strain of the last few months of battles, Merlin's magic is almost used up completely; he barely has any strength remaining. When an exhausted and heartbroken Arthur commands that Merlin use his power to bring back Guinevere and his son, Merlin knows he only has enough magic left to bring back the baby, but if he tries to bring back Guinevere as well, it will kill him. Years ago, he would gladly have given his life for Guinevere's, but he overheard her whispering with Lancelot a month ago; if she is brought back, she will take Arthur's son and leave Camelot with his best knight, and if Merlin is gone too, what will become of Arthur, left all alone? But Arthur, overwhelmed with grief, will not listen to his protests...until he realizes that his beloved warlock really is sick and his very life is in the king's hands.





	The Fall of Camelot (Rewrite)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Fall of Camelot](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/493456) by Rin. 



> So several years ago I wrote an angsty short fic on fanfiction.net called The Fall of Camelot. Obviously by the title it had a sad ending, but I typically don’t like sad endings, especially in my own stories. It’s been forever but I finally decided to rewrite that fic and give it a better ending. And not only that, but I also plan to make this the first in a series of four fics that are going to be a slow-burn Merthur AU, starting with friendship in the first two fics (including this one), one-sided pining in the third fic, and ending with a happily-ever-after for our favorite king and warlock in the last one. <3 There’s going to be plenty of plot in the other three (and plenty of porn in the fourth one*cough*).  
> You don’t have to read The Fall of Camelot to understand this story at all; just note that it’s a major AU in which Lancelot is still around and he and Guinevere were planning on running away together after the baby was born. It’s pretty angsty but it ends on a good note so I hope you’ll try it out. Here’s the link to the original fic, just if you wanted to read that one first (but remember you don't have to): https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7754632/1/The-Fall-of-Camelot. I hope you enjoy!

The sound of a tiny, innocent cry sent Arthur’s heart fluttering in his chest.

The whole room seemed to cease moving in time; even the candle flames were still. Arthur wondered, somewhere in a distant part of his mind, if that was due to the magic or if it was simply just his own emotions playing tricks upon his awareness. He noticed nothing else in the world as he bent forward to run his gaze along the little bundle lying on the bed, and felt his heart skip again to see that the brown, smooth skin was now flushed a healthy pink rather than dusty grey as it had been moments ago, and the little face was scrunched up with his displeased crying rather than limp and expressionless.

Arthur was too overcome to realize how violently Merlin’s whole body shook as the lavender ceased smoking and the magic finished doing its life-giving work.

He was afraid of his own rough hands, but the king nevertheless slipped one palm beneath his infant son’s soft head and the other he circled under his tiny body, just as Merlin had taught him to do so many months ago, when the whole castle had rejoiced at the news of the coming prince.

That had been mere months ago, but it felt like decades now. That joy had come so close to turning into tragedy.

The memories of those happy times brought Arthur back to the painful present. He pulled his eyes away from his newborn child reluctantly and and turned to Lancelot, whose wide brown eyes met his with some surprise at his attention.

“Take him,” the king ordered, not thinking or caring about whatever discord may lay between them. “Have the servants care for him.”

Lancelot accepted the fragile burden carefully, staring into his tiny face with something akin to Arthur’s own awe before rushing from the room.

Arthur waited until he could no longer see his son before he turned back around.

His warlock sat slumped in the bedside chair, breathing labored and eyes half-closed, head lolling slightly to one side.

“Merlin.”

Several heartbeats of time passed before Merlin moved, but when he finally lifted his gaze to meet his king’s, their eyes—two different shades of blue, two different kinds of haunted—Arthur only looked for a moment. It was too quick, much too quick, to notice the pain turning Merlin’s clear gaze into something blurred and listless.

“Now Guinevere, Merlin, please.”

It was the plea of a heartbroken man for one last miracle—certainly it was that—but with the underlying reality of a king’s command. Impossible for Merlin to deny, either way, no matter how he wished he could.

The sorcerer fought to get his breathing under control, but his body was trembling too badly, an occasional shudder through his chest sending his lungs out of rhythm again. His heart, too, quivered after every few beats, and he tried not to consider what that might mean, although he already knew what was coming, even before he had begun. What little magic he had left scorched through his veins, a signal of danger as mighty as the citadel warning bell. Even now, it would take weeks for his war-exhausted body to replenish his magic to what it had been; it would not be able to bear another drain of his power. Even something as simple as setting fire to the remaining lavender seemed an impossible trick for his magic to perform. . ..But he would do more than that, more than any other sorcerer in all the land could. Another few moments, and his magic would be emptied into the most intense spell known to mankind—the power of life and death. The queen’s life, and his death. And it would all be for Arthur, always for Arthur.

He struggled to stand, his muscles betraying him twice before he could manage it.

“Arthur,”—His voice was so frail he almost could not recognize it as his own.—“please, listen to me.”

_“Merlin.”_

The answer was so cold, so hard and relentless, that for a moment Merlin was transported back in time to years past, to the lined face and mismatched eyes of a bitter king who reigned so much differently than his son. But despite the strangely overlapping circumstances, the open emotion and fear in Arthur’s face proved that he was not his father. Uther had known full well what he had been doing, and had been too selfish to think that it would be life of a loved one that would pay his high price; Arthur was blind to the suffering he was causing, innocent and well-meaning as he’d always been. How could he know what he was doing? He could not listen, not with his beloved queen lying dead before him, ignorant of her treachery with his best knight. Arthur’s heart was pure, Merlin had known that even before the unicorn so long ago; he wanted nothing but the health and safety and happiness of his people and those he loved most of all. He would continue to be deaf and blind to what he was doing, until it was too late for him to realize that he was wrong.

All of his grief bearing down upon him and mixing with his illness until he could not tell which of his symptoms was caused by what, Merlin pushed himself from his chair.

It took him three tries to hold the lavender properly, but of course Arthur did not notice, his eyes only for Guinevere’s lifeless face. At some point, though Merlin knew not when, Lancelot reentered the room.

On the fourth repetition of the chant, Arthur realized that it was taking too long.

“Merlin,” he began, warningly, but the sorcerer cut him off, knowing already that the king was too stressed to have any patience.

“I’m sorry,” he nearly whispered. “It’s just hard.”

Perhaps it was what he said, or perhaps it was how his voice sounded when he said it, or perhaps it was because, for whatever reason, Arthur finally looked at Merlin for the first time since entering this terrible room, but the king’s gaze remained locked upon Merlin’s face for longer than before. 

The king watched, actually watched this time, as his friend swallowed and regripped the lavender in two fists, which, he abruptly realized, were trembling where he held it over Guinevere’s unmoving chest. Arthur’s wide blue eyes followed the movements of those familiar hands.

Merlin repeated the incantation again, his voice breaking on the last word. Nothing happened, for the fifth time, but now Arthur was watching as Merlin’s eyes blurred just before the flash of gold and he had to catch himself on the side table; when it did shine, the gold was barely strong enough to completely surround Merlin’s overly-dilated pupils. He tried once more, his voice now painfully grating as he fought his magic’s instincts of self-preservation and forced it up into the enchantment; though his words did not break this time, he could not seem to catch his breath at all now.

Arthur looked anxiously into his wife’s face for a sign of life, but none was there; when he looked up again, Merlin’s face had gone from white to grey, and it was crumpled with an intense pain, though he made not a sound.

One slender hand, shaking even worse now, struggled to get hold of the side table for support, but he could not find his grip and half-fell backwards into the chair. Harsh breaths wheezed out of his flared nostrils, his mouth in a tight line, jaw clenched against some deep internal pain. Arthur had seen that look on enough wounded soldiers to recognize it undoubtedly now.

Merlin, oblivious to his king’s gaze, shifted and leant forward, holding the leaves over Guinevere and whispering the spell again. This time, the golden magic was nothing but a vague flicker that did not cover the whole blue. Still, a harsh whimper cut out of the warlock’s throat; a few moments before, Arthur acknowledged that he might not have noticed, but now the sound echoed in his ears louder than his own nervously pounding heart.

But before he could consider it, Merlin clenched his jaw again with a frightful determination and bent forward, rasping voice repeating the enchantment once, twice, until his shaking became so bad that he fell forward with his elbows on the mattress, breathing rough and halting as though his body was growing too weak to keep up the effort. Spasms trembled through his shoulders—those shoulders that had carried so many heavy burdens already in the last few years—and Arthur was afraid he had heard a sob until he realized that it was a muffled cry of pain, but that frightened him all the more.

But then he looked at Guinevere and thought of all the things he had seen Merlin overcome in the past decade. Surely that strength could carry them through this as well? At least they had to try, just once more.

“Try again,” he said, hoping that he sounded kinder than before.

Merlin did not answer; he did not even move for a long moment. But then, just like always, he straightened his back as much as he could and obeyed. For Arthur. It was always for Arthur. The king realized that more and more these days.

Only this time, the words had barely broken past his lips before Merlin collapsed violently forward despite his obvious attempt to stop himself, and the whine of agony was prolonged despite how he pressed his sleeve to his mouth to cover it. 

Arthur felt his breathing catch against his will, fists curling at his sides as though he were feeling the same pain. He thought of his new son, of how he had gotten him back from the dead while almost no other father in all of time had ever received such a privilege. He thought of all the men who would return home to their families and friends because Merlin had done the same for them on a battlefield. He thought of how much more the Great Sorcerer of Camelot had done for their people, for him. He thought of how exhausted and sick he himself was, and how much more Merlin must be. After all, he bore Arthur’s burdens as well as his own.

He thought of how many times in the last days Merlin had saved his life on the battlefield, draining his worn magic without complaint each time Arthur asked anything from him.

As though surprised to be sensing a gaze on him, Merlin allowed his eyes to flicker upward; they took much too long to focus, but when they did, Arthur, though not intuitive by nature, knew that there was something pleading silently there. This was something he had seen in his knights as well, when they accepted their fate, just before their injuries overcame them and they passed into the next life. It was a sad sort of consent, with one final flare of hope that someone could do something but the knowledge that no one could…or would.

Along with an abrupt, confused terror, memories leapt up to the front of Arthur’s mind—memories from only a short moment ago, when he had been overwhelmed, maddened by grief and self-pity, too maddened to listen. But he was listening now. He could hear that tired, desperate voice in his memories clearly, protesting his commands to do something perhaps beyond Merlin's ability.

_“I can’t, Arthur.”_

_“My magic is so weak.”_

_“Please, you must believe me.”_

_“I will die.”_

He took in the paleness of Merlin’s lips, the frailness of his arms, the numb look on his normally-expressive face, the sweat soaking the short dark hair at his forehead, and Arthur knew. He knew that Merlin was going to do this, for him, if he allowed it.

His sorcerer started to move again, to pick up the fallen lavender and recite the spell, to drain more of his sparse magic, perhaps for the last time.

“Merlin, that’s enough.”

The dark-haired man seemed to take a long time to comprehend what he’d heard, and then he looked up, the barest hint of hope in his otherwise pain-filled eyes. And Arthur found himself suddenly willing to do anything to prove that hope deserved.

Their gazes held for another long moment, until the question in Merlin’s was answered in Arthur’s.

The enormous sigh of relief was enough to ease the king’s soul, as Merlin relaxed half-atop the mattress, the dried plants falling from his hands.

“What are you doing?”

The voice startled them both; they had forgotten Lancelot had returned and was standing at the foot of the bed. Neither of them answered, Arthur too resolute and Merlin too weak.

Arthur began to round the bed, to get to Merlin, but Lancelot grasped his arm when he passed.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, desperately. “You must save her. Merlin. . .”

The warlock barely could move his head to look at the knight that he once been his most trusted friend, before wrong choices had twisted their fates.

“There’s nothing more that can be done,” Arthur pulled Lancelot’s attention back to himself, recognizing a storm gathering on the other man’s countenance.

If Lancelot heard the deep sorrow in his king’s voice, he did not acknowledge it. 

“No,” he said, voice rising with dread. “No, you can do it, Merlin. I know you can.”

“It’s too much,” came the bare whisper. “My magic is almost gone. Any more will kill me.”

Hearing those words was enough to confirm for Arthur the choice he had already made. He began to move away from Lancelot, toward Merlin again, but to his surprise his most loyal knight sidestepped into his path.

“Please, Arthur,” he said, imploringly. “She is our queen, your _wife_.”

Hurt sliced through the king of Camelot at those words, but he knew deep in his soul, past the torture of grief, that he had done what was right. It was the lesser of two evils, perhaps, but it was the only way to a pure conscience. If he had murdered Merlin, he would have wished for death himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his warlock watching them closely, slumped as he was in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but his shoulders remained straight and his gaze steady so that both men would know that he would not waver. “I truly am. But there is nothing we can do, Lancelot. As much as it breaks my heart, it’s too late.”

“You can order him.”

Spoken quietly, as though Merlin wouldn’t be able to hear, the words startled Arthur; more than that, they shook him to the core. 

He glanced to his warlock for his reaction, but Merlin was not looking at Lancelot. He was looking at Arthur.

The king looked back into Lancelot’s wide, expectant brown eyes.

“You know I cannot do that,” he answered, equally quietly.

Something flashed across Lancelot’s face, something he had never seen twist those gentle dark features, something motivated entirely by grief and nothing like the kind man he’d known. War and loss had hardened them all, it seemed, but some more than others.

“You are the king,” Lancelot was saying, eyes wet, hands upturned like a vagabond praying for mercy, “not him. It’s your decision in the end, not his.”

It was almost true—at least true enough to make Arthur feel the guilt of his wife lying there before them. But then, it wasn’t really his choice at all, not when his very soul drove him to guard and protect the weak figure whose eyes had now fallen closed, just as he had been guarded and protected since the first day Merlin had arrived in Camelot.

He inhaled a steadying breath through his nose and exhaled before looking back into Lancelot’s eyes.

“He’s done so much already,” he murmured, reminding. “Look at him, Lancelot.”

He waited until he was sure Lancelot had.

“How can I ask any more of him?”

He thought for a moment that Lancelot understood, but his grief must have been more than he could bear, because he shut his eyes and shook his head as though to shake the image of sick Merlin out of it.

“She’s done nothing to deserve this,” he said. “She deserved happiness and peace of mind. She deserved to live her life into old age, surrounded by her children and a man who loved her, who would die for her. She is your _wife_ , Arthur.”

“And he is your friend, Lancelot,” was Arthur’s only answer, because the rest was too painful, and Lancelot had always been close to Merlin, and cared for him; he had known about Merlin’s magic long before Arthur. He still tried not to feel ashamed about that.

“But you can do it, Merlin,” Lancelot turned back to their warlock, who looked up with bleary eyes. “I know you can. I believe it. I believe in you. Merlin, please.”

Merlin was silent for so long, Arthur thought he must be too tired to understand. But then, quietly but not quite apologetically,

“I’m sorry. I know you. I know how you feel. If there was anything I could do, I would; you must believe that. But if I do this, so much more will be lost than just my own life. I know what you were planning to do. I know why you’re really asking this of me. And I cannot let it happen. If I do this, I will die, and then what will become of Arthur? I’m sorry. I can’t.”

As if this little speech had taken the very last reserves of his strength, Merlin slumped in the chair to catch his breath, eyes half-closed and hands limp as he obviously struggled to keep focused on the conversation.

As he had been speaking, Lancelot’s face had steadily lost its color. Arthur did not quite understand everything Merlin had said, but he had a terrible feeling he could guess what his wise sorcerer had meant, what he’d known. Guinevere had explained, more than once, the relationship between herself and his bravest knight, but even when she would, he recognized a mimicry of their love in the way she would say Lancelot’s name. Despite all of his failures, Arthur Pendragon was not a fool, nor was he a selfish man. She had given Sir Lancelot some of her love long ago, and he had always been able to accept that and ignore the discomforting thought that perhaps there was still some of it left between them.

But Merlin had never been one to disguise reality for a more pleasant fiction. Merlin saw the truth for what it was, even if others believed they could hide it. It was one of the reasons Arthur trusted him so much.

More than that, Merlin also always tried to protect those less aware from these painful truths, which included the king of Camelot when necessary. That was one of the reasons Arthur loved him so much. If he knew something was going on between Lancelot and Guinevere, Merlin would surely keep it a secret to protect Arthur from being hurt. The king had no doubt of that, and the long, intense look between knight and warlock now only confirmed his fears.

Arthur would always have imagined that Lancelot might endure grief with his usual quiet grace, but then, he knew better than anyone—from the last few minutes alone—that grief could turn a man into the opposite of who he was. So he could not truly be surprised when Lancelot’s tone grew only louder and more desperate, angry.

“How could you allow this? She deserves life more than anyone else in this entire castle—more than you, or me. I would gladly lay down my life for her. I always believed that you were the bravest, the most compassionate man I’d ever known, Merlin. Has your position of authority truly made you so arrogant and thoughtless, that you think yourself too important to be that good man anymore? Do you really believe your life is more valuable than hers? Because it is not. It’s never been. The remainder of your life from this point on will be worth nothing, nothing at all, if you trade hers for it. You are worth _nothing_ —”

Arthur had let it go on for this long, but with these words he stepped forward and put a hand firmly on the man’s tensed shoulder.

“Lancelot, that is enough.”

He was surprised, however, when rather than consenting to the voice of his king, the knight pulled away, tears glistening in the candlelight.

“You’re the worst of both of you,” came the burning accusation. “How can you say you love her, and choose another over her? How can you choose _him_?”

Arthur found himself with the thought that he’d like to ask Guinevere the same question, but would not spoil her memory by admitting that now.

“How,” Lancelot continued, “can you look at your son and know that you willingly allow him to grow up without a mother? How could you let someone else—even Merlin—live, and allow her to die? You’ve as good as murdered her.”

Arthur had thought himself to be fully in control, but he could not even say which of Lancelot’s accusations had hit him too hard. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed the other man’s shoulders and shoved him against the canopy bedpost.

“There is nothing I would not do for her,” he bit out, unnerving himself with his own fury but not caring. “I loved her more than any _other_ ever could.”

Lancelot appeared as startled as he was, but Arthur could see a storm stirring in his eyes, and he was ready—ready to fight, either to prove himself or as an outlet to his grief, he did not know, and he did not care. . .not until a gentle voice from his right stopped him. 

“Arthur.”

He did not look, but nevertheless felt his whole body relax under the calming influence.

“Please, stop.”

The voice was too breathless to say any more, but just those two words were enough to make the king release his grip on Lancelot’s arms. He had turned away, shakily, and was aware too late that Lancelot was lunging for him, sword drawn from its sheath. He put up a defensive stance, but he was so exhausted and weak that he knew he would never be fast enough to dodge the gleaming steel blade.

He did not have to be. He registered after a heartbeat that Lancelot was lying on the floor, having knocked over a side table when he’d fallen, and Merlin was on his feet with one hand raised in a posture wonderfully familiar.

Perhaps Arthur had not been fast enough to save himself, but he was on his feet and easing Merlin gently to the floor as the warlock collapsed. He cradled his friend against himself as he felt the tremors shaking them both, the dark head lolling against his arm, surrounded by the sound of heavy breathing.

Arthur looked down into his friend’s white face, saw it etched with pain, and only looked up when two guards rushed in to see what had caused the noise.

“Escort him to his chambers,” he commanded, gesturing blindly.

The guards had obediently wrestled a silent Lancelot from the room when Merlin managed to sit up. In the next moment, however, one palm slid on the floor and he fell sideways against Arthur’s chest. The king caught him easily; slipping one arm under Merlin’s back and the other under his knees, he lifted him and was surprised at how much of his own strength still remained after the last few months of grueling battles. Then again, Merlin was also thinner than he’d seen in many years. As he moved from the room, resolutely not thinking of how he was turning his back on his wife for the last time, he vowed that both he and Merlin would be well again as soon as they could be.

He passed several of his guards on the way to the physician’s chambers, and usually they might have thought it strange to see their king carrying his slumbering warlock, but the entire kingdom knew of the intensity of their war in the last months. As it was, the most he saw in their faces were understanding and a reverent respect.

He was only slightly breathless when he reached the old wooden door and pushed his way through the mess of toppled stools and half-unrolled scrolls and torn book pages. Merlin did not stir when he laid him carefully down on the bed in the little anteroom, removed his boots, and pulled the blanket around him. When he began to move away in search of another blanket (because it was slightly cool in the room from the days of disuse), Merlin’s hand reached out and clasped his wrist with unexpectedly strong fingers.

Half-open grey-blue eyes watched him in the misty moonlight through the window high on the wall. He had seen Merlin tired before, many times, but the complete exhaustion cutting into every line of that familiar face was new and almost frightening. Still, those wise, haunted eyes were just lingering on alertness, searching his face—for what, he wasn’t sure, but he set one hand atop his friend’s and moved closer so that he was easier to reach. Despite the exhaustion he was just beginning to feel in his own muscles and the grief settling darkly into one corner of his heart, he thought of his son in the care of the midwives downstairs, and the pulse he could feel thrumming faintly in Merlin’s wrist, and he found it was actually easy to smile softly at him.

“Sleep now,” he said, hearing the king’s order in his own voice but knowing Merlin would hear the concerned friend more.

Whatever Merlin had been searching for, he must have seen it, because his eyes softened as he smiled faintly, releasing Arthur’s wrist. His trembling body relaxed into the old mattress at last and his eyes slipped closed.

The king left the chamber carefully, closing the door without a sound and informing the guard at the end of the hall that no one was to disturb the sorcerer until he gave the word.

His vision was beginning to blur slightly around the edges, but nevertheless he bypassed his own chamber door and followed the winding halls lit by flickering torches. The younger midwives curtsied and left the room, while the eldest one urged him wordlessly into a fur-padded chair by the flickering fireplace. His son did not awaken when she settled him in Arthur’s arms, but one tiny hand slipped out of the cover of the blanket and his little eyelids fluttered in some infant dream.

Arthur, feeling a little awkward with the skilled matron in the room, moved one arm carefully from under the tiny form so he could press his index finger against the soft palm of his baby’s hand. Instantly the fingers tightened around it, surprising him, and in the one simple moment he was hopelessly lost in love for this tiny being who had yet even to look at him. He had been filled with a fearful sort of excitement for this moment since the day they’d discovered it was coming, but suddenly specific visions filled his head—walking around the castle holding him just like this and beaming proudly at the smiles he would get, gently combing the soft hair of a fidgeting child in front of a mirror, teaching him to ride a horse and catching him if he fell off, cheering for his tournaments and never shaming him if he did not win, watching him closely to ensure he did not drink too much at the ceremony when he would be named Crown Prince. Before, he had felt afraid of himself and his lack of instinct, but now he suddenly realized he knew all he needed to know about being a father; all he had to do was love his son, give him what he needed and teach him what he should know…and if he had any doubts or insecurities, there were always the midwives, and Merlin.

Merlin would love this child as much as Arthur did. Of that the king was certain. Merlin’s magic, once it was replenished again, would be the child’s protection. He would guide and instruct him with the same dedication he had always shown the prince-turned-king. He would be the arms into which Arthur would pass his son trustingly. Merlin would help him raise this boy to be a better king than any before, including Arthur himself.

A tiny breath like a laugh escaped him, as he stared in wonder at this little miracle and all the joy he would inevitably bring.

When he looked up at last, the matron was hovering a polite distance away, and as he allowed her to take him, she asked, breaking the long silence,

“Does he have a name yet, your highness?”

Guinevere had surely thought of one in his absence. A dark sorrow swept over him at that thought, but he would not allow it to overwhelm him in the face of such a significant question. He thought for a long moment, the woman patiently awaiting with an unobtrusive presence. In his consideration, he could remember one night a few weeks ago, when only he and Merlin had been awake before the open fire in a northern forest, and Merlin had offered a name he thought would be suitable for the new prince.

“Casimir,” Arthur said, the name feeling as perfect on his tongue as it had then, “it means ‘declaration of peace.’”

She appeared pleased with his choice, a smile curving her thin, wrinkled mouth, and she bowed slightly before removing herself from the light of the fire and settling the child in his cradle.

Arthur lay down in his own bed and went straight to sleep that night, his mind filled with declarations of peace and plans of rebuilding the kingdom to be stronger and kinder than ever, with his warlock and his son at his side.

He awoke only three hours later to the shock of the warning bell’s heavy toll.

————————————————

Uncharacteristically, it took several minutes for Merlin to drag himself from his thick and deep sleep, and by the time he was dizzyingly pulling on his boots Arthur burst into his small bedchamber.

“Lancelot,” he said by way of explanation, and Merlin knew from the fear in his eyes and the anger in his voice before he even finished, “he took Casimir. We’re riding now to overtake him at the valley pass.”

“I’m coming with you,” was his unhesitant reply.

“No, Merlin,” Arthur responded. “You are not well and I cannot risk your life. The men and I will bring him back. You will stay here. We won’t be more than a few hours.”

Merlin did not take time to be touched at Arthur’s concern, but with shaking hands he used a match to light a candle across the room so they could see each other better. Even if he could not use his magic for another few days, his powers weren’t the only thing that he had to help his king. He looked unwaveringly into his friend’s eyes.

“Arthur, I’m coming with you.”

Arthur thought in a flash of his own thoughts from just a few hours before, of his conviction that Merlin loved this new child as much as he did, and he could only nod and allow his sorcerer to follow him from the room—a mere step behind him, as always.

———————————————————

It took much longer than they anticipated to find Lancelot’s camp, because he had apparently chosen a roundabout way to the pass that was far off the common path. It was early afternoon before they and the knights covered enough of the forest to smell the fire smoke from fifty paces out.

Even though they were all old friends, the knights’ swords were drawn in preparation of meeting the man who had stolen the newborn prince. When they entered the clearing, however, all froze behind the king as he halted in shock at the sight. There was no sign of the missing stable horse, and the bags that had been discovered missing from Lancelot’s chambers were lying inside-out, their contents gone except for one small canteen at the far edge of the clearing. Upon bending down in the overcast afternoon light, Leon could see eight sets of footprints outlined in the mud near the dropped canteen.

“Bandits,” murmured Percival fearfully.

For a moment, all hoped perhaps they had found not Lancelot’s camp, but some other poor traveler’s. The faint hopes were abandoned, though, when they rounded the smoldering fire and found the lifeless body on his side, familiar dark eyes open, unseeing and faded.

Despite all that had happened, pity swept over Merlin as flashes of the early days of his and Lancelot’s friendship crossed his mind, but then he banished them and focused his search through the dim ground. He held his breath in hope that the bandits had somehow known whose the child was, even though Lancelot had naturally taken nothing bearing the mark of Camelot with him. If they had, perhaps they had taken him to sell or bargain; perhaps there was still a chance….

Then he saw it, and his heart broke in his chest, not just for himself, but for Arthur and the kingdom as well. He hesitated calling out for a moment, wishing he did not have to be the one, but knew it was only a matter of seconds before the others wandered over in their own search.

“Arthur!”

The king ran to him across the wet dirt; when he fell to his knees beside Merlin, his hands were trembling with urgency as he touched the bundle of blankets soaked through with the rain that had been falling all day. Merlin heard his breath catch, and saw his shoulders began to shake, and then helpless blue eyes turned on him.

Merlin shook his head, hardly able to speak as the adrenaline began to fade away into the terrible sorrow of failure, leaving him weak and helpless—rare feelings for him, with all his energy and power.

“He’s been gone too long,” he murmured, apology thick in his voice. “Even if I could…Arthur, I’m sorry.”

The image would haunt Merlin in his nightmares for weeks afterward, when Arthur detached his own cloak and wrapped the tiny, still form in the deep red and gold, and then cradled him in his shaking arms and cried as none of them had ever seen. Merlin had always teased Arthur for his hardheartedness, knowing all the while the kind and sensitive man lay just below the royal surface, but seeing the depth of his emotions now crushed his heart like he never could have imagined. Arthur was exhausted, war-sick, and now without any family left; there was no trace of the self-conscious king of Camelot now, but only a shocked father and heartbroken widower.

All around them, the knights dropped to their knees and bowed their heads, some with tears falling silently at the sound of their king’s—their friend’s—pain, knowing all he had endured to bring peace to the land and now all he had lost because of it. But none of them knew as well as Merlin, and he would have given up anything—the kingdom, his freedom, his magic—to have given Arthur back all he had lost.

As it was, all he could do was bow too as it started to sprinkle rain again.

———————————————-

They buried Casimir near the edge of the quiet water and marked the place with a small mountain of smooth river stones—that is, the knights did, as Merlin now almost too exhausted to walk. He had been the one to take Casimir from Arthur’s arms, however, when it was time to put him in the ground; he was the only one to whom Arthur would surrender him.

No one spoke all the way back to the citadel, not even Gwaine, and when they arrived no one in the castle tried to stop the king as he walked, somberly and unseeingly, to his chambers. Merlin, beginning to feel dizzy, nevertheless determinedly followed but was sent away at the door with a plea to be left alone for the night. Only when Arthur sincerely begged him to get some sleep himself did he feel compelled to obey.

Two weeks later, he still had not been allowed in Arthur’s chambers, and every time the king was out of them the everyone in the castle scampered to avoid his irrational anger and cold commands. He had run the knights, still weary from battle themselves, ragged with training exercises and sent every meal back to the kitchens with rants of displeasure for the taste. The council members were not immune to his newly awakened temper, all of them having rushed from the room, red-faced, when someone had made a suggestion the king had not liked. While every man, woman, and child in the land mourned for their beloved king, Merlin was beginning to get requests from every angle to do _something_ to help him for everyone’s sakes. Having already tried to talk to Arthur six times and been all but thrown out of his presence, he was struggling to know what to tell them.

Finally, on the fifteenth night, he did Arthur the honor of knocking on his door, calling out his name, and listening for a reply; hearing none but knowing full well the king was there, he entered anyway and locked the door behind himself.

“I told you not to disturb me.”

“I know,” he replied, unruffled, “but since _you’ve_ been disturbing the whole castle I thought I should probably ignore that.”

The fiercely hateful look Arthur gave him from his seat at the end of the table would have been enough to send even the bravest of his knights bowing out of the room. Merlin, however, had the advantage of being much more than just one of Arthur’s men; he was his guide, his protector, his conscience, and right now most importantly of all, his healer. He knew more than anything that he was the only person in the kingdom who could do it. Plus he was also never intimidated by him no matter how kingly he tried to be, which was an added advantage.

As he pondered what exactly he should say next, Arthur shoved himself from his chair and went to stand before the window, arms crossed over his chest and back to Merlin. He was trying to appear angry—oh, he was certainly trying—but Merlin had seen and studied his every gesture and mood for years. He could tell by the soft, slackened shape of his shoulders that he was not truly angry, and so he pressed on.

“Arthur, this must stop,” he told him, plainly but without any heat or accusation. “You cannot go on like this, not just for the sake of your friends and your kingdom, but for yourself. Pushing away the people who care about you and trying to bear it all alone will only cause more suffering. You must deal with your grief, my lord, but not at the expense of others or yourself. Think of all the people who have made that mistake—Mordred, Morgana, your father.”

He paused before the last one, uncertain about saying it, but the pattern was definitely there and he knew Arthur would understand what he meant. The old, recanted laws against sorcery had caused them both too much pain. He saw the muscles of Arthur’s back tense under his thin white tunic, and he prepared himself for a lashing out, but a moment later the king relaxed again and did nothing else.

“I know what you want,” Merlin continued, quiet now with sympathy, “and if I could undo all that was done, you know I would. I can only offer to help you now, but I can’t if you won’t allow me. I’m your friend, Arthur. Whatever you want me to do to help you, all you have to do is ask. You’re not alone.”

Still there was nothing but the crackling of the fire in answer, and he began to feel this was yet another failed attempt. Then, a tiny shuddering breath ghosted against the darkened window and he saw Arthur’s arms tighten around himself slightly.

“Merlin—”

He wasn’t even pretending to be angry now, obviously fighting to keep his voice even and calm against the heartbreak cracking at the edges.

“—do you really mean that?”

Although Merlin did not understand him yet, he could hear the vulnerability clearly and no question had ever been easier to answer.

“You know I do.”

A moment, and then, in a tone almost shy,

“Then, may I ask something of you?”

“Anything,” was his immediate response.

Arthur turned and dropped is arms to his sides but stared down at the floor rather than looking at Merlin directly. The warlock felt that he looked somehow fragile despite the broadness of his shoulders and the aura of royalty that clung to him even now. He was pale and thin from not eating well; he looked as though one wrong word would break him, and suddenly, irrationally Merlin wished he could just take him somewhere beautiful where he would never have to live in fear or sorrow again.

“I know,” Arthur spoke at last, tears glistening in his eyes and choking his voice a bit despite his obvious battle against them, “that I ask so much of you, Merlin—too much. Even if I didn’t, to ask this…it’s selfish of me, and it’s not fair to you. I know that, but the kingdom is safe now from Morgana. The people are happy. We’ve fulfilled everything we were meant to do, and there are many who could take the throne of Camelot now. I’m not needed anymore like I was.”

Merlin opened his mouth to disagree strongly with that, but was halted when, finally, for the first time in days, Arthur looked at him. The bare, stormy emotion clouding his eyes made the warlock’s breath catch in his throat.

“I need you to promise me something. Please, Merlin, promise me this, if you can.”

Not once in the last ten years had he ever heard Arthur beg for anything for himself. Several times Arthur had begged for the lives of others, on the battlefield or as a captive, and once he had begged the forgiveness of a Druid spirit in exchange for Elyan’s life. Never had he pled purely for himself, and the weight of that knowledge made Merlin’s blood run cold. He thought of how Uther’s mind and will were taken from him after losing Morgana, how nothing anyone did for him made any difference, and in the old king’s place he saw Arthur, sitting by an open window, staring out into a world of shattered hopes and never smiling again.

There was still some hesitancy in his friend’s long silence, as if he were debating whether he could really ask for help or not. Merlin rounded the table and stood closer, but not too close, so that the other man would not feel trapped or pressured.

“Arthur,” he said intently, “whatever it is, whatever you want from me, all you have to do is ask. Surely you know that by now. Please, tell me what you need.”

Arthur’s gaze had dropped deliberately to the floor again and his breaths were labored and trembling, and then, after another long moment, he closed his eyes in almost-defeat and his voice came out in a whisper.

“Don’t leave me.”

Merlin’s first thought was, _Surely that can’t be all,_ but then he understood. In Arthur’s eyes, he was asking more than he ever had before; rather than speaking as a king desiring for Merlin to protect his crown, he was speaking simply as a man who had been broken and wanted to feel cared for. He was asking to be shown the truest, most unselfish kind of love—a love that gave up anything and everything else to stay and be used as a support while his own strength was gone. That was a terrifying thought for anyone, let alone a noble king who had spent his life lending strength to others.

“Please, Merlin, I-I need you,” the king continued, his strange embarrassment turning his cheeks soft pink even as his voice grew desperate and a single tear slipped down his face. “I’ve never felt this before and I fear this-this pain will overcome me if I fight it alone. I know I have no right to ask; I know you’ve done so much for me, for my kingdom, my people—more than anyone else ever could have done. You deserve the right to build your own life now, apart from all this. I know that, and I will not be angry if you refuse, but please, Merlin, whatever happens, don’t…don’t go now. Stay with me. I don’t know what to do. I need you. You’re the only one who can help me.”

“I promise,” he answered, interrupting when tears started to choke his friend’s voice, unable to bear hearing the agonized pleading any longer.

Though he spoke in little more than a whisper, it was like a spell that diffused the whole room of darkness. Arthur’s breath seemed to catch, not making a sound as his wide eyes searched his sorcerer’s face. Merlin moved closer, keeping sufficient space between them for Arthur’s sake but almost close enough to touch.

“I’ve told you before about my loyalty to you,” he murmured, meekly and simply, because it was the most obvious thing in the world to him but to Arthur it was still a mystery even after all this time. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I decided long ago that my place is here, at your side. You were right about one thing—we have accomplished everything the prophecies said we would. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you now; it means the opposite, because now we have all the time we need to just _be_ without our destiny getting in the way.”

Arthur’s eyes were dry now, and Merlin could see that an invisible burden had been lifted off him; he didn’t smile, not quite yet, but his entire frame relaxed as he exhaled softly in some intense relief.

“This is my life, Arthur. I promise, unless something were to happen completely out of my control—which would have to be something _really_ powerful—”

Arthur let out a little huff that was almost a laugh (because it was like a joke between them, how small and silly Merlin had once been to him compared to how mighty he saw him now, and neither of them had ever really been able to separate the old Merlin from the new one). Little though it was, the sorcerer was heartened by the sound and allowed himself to smile a bit in reply.

“I will never leave you,” he finished. “You have my word, sire.”

Arthur released another breath, this one finally taking all his tension and fear with it, and for a moment Merlin was afraid he would fall over with exhaustion. Though he swayed slightly, the king stayed upright and strong—just like always—but his face was more open than Merlin had ever seen, full of wonder and relief and a dozen other little emotions as he gazed at his friend.

“Thank you, Merlin,” came the response at last, low and overwhelmed with gratitude.

In the sorcerer’s eyes, he had done Arthur no great favor; but he could see why the king might think he had, so rather than telling him so he merely stepped forward and tugged his arm lightly.

“Come on,” he ordered. “You need rest.”

Arthur tolerated it when he pulled him all the way to the bed and silently helped him change into his nightclothes, like it was ten years ago and they were prince and manservant again. Once Arthur was settled on his side, Merlin used one hand to pull the blankets up and around him and he other he flicked in the air to put out the candle with his now fully-restored magic.

The warlock listened for a moment to assure himself that Arthur was resting, and was almost surprised to realize that the king had fallen asleep within seconds. He laid his hand on the man’s shoulder with his ever-present, if unspoken, affection, and went to his own chambers to plan. He would have to choose helpers to take over some of his duties if he were to keep his promise; though he did not often like to delegate tasks into the hands of others, this time he did not mind. The task upon which he must put all his focus was more important than any court duty could ever be.  


\----------------------------------------

If Arthur was surprised that it was Merlin, and not his younger manservant of the last three years, awakening him the next morning, he only showed it for a moment. And if it was uncommon for Merlin to join him for breakfast in his chambers, he never pointed it out, but only made jokes about how his sorcerer was a glutton for stealing all the potatoes off his own plate using magic. The jokes were a little weak compared to Arthur’s usual teasing, but Merlin took whatever he offered as a good sign and continued to steal his potatoes just to see him fight a smile.

It had always been—especially in the last few years—unusual for them to be apart for any reason other than having separate duties to accomplish, but now not even that kept Merlin from being at Arthur’s side. For ten weeks, he did whatever work he could finish on his own in a short amount of time, but whatever took too long he delegated to someone else so that he could instead accompany his king on his own daily errands. When Merlin had been a manservant, he had stood back from the table at meetings and meals but was nonetheless a constant presence; when he had been given the position of new Court Sorcerer, he’d had place at Arthur’s right side whether he was able to be present or not. Now he never missed a single chance to be there, speaking to Arthur, making the king chuckle or nod or roll his eyes fondly. He privately spoke to the servants and instructed them not to bother helping Arthur bathe or ready for bed, as he was there anyway and it used to be his job.

He and Arthur had always talked; Arthur often said Merlin rambled on about nothing, but in truth Arthur was often the one rambling about this or that—problems at court or where to go on the next hunt or whether or not he liked the new wine being served for dinner. For the first three weeks, Arthur hardly spoke at all unless prompted, and so Merlin became an expert at deciding when to fill the silence with chatter or when to be silent with him. After that, however, Arthur suddenly became more open than he had ever been, his conversations drifting from the cooling weather to some deeply emotional topic and back again as easily as a shifting wind. 

Merlin listened deliberately to every word, and Arthur rewarded him with an arm slung around his shoulders or a lingering ruffle to his hair or a hand wrapped around his wrist; the new, seemingly unconscious affection was surprising, but Merlin did not question it. Having had to beg playfully for years just to get a hug from him once every few months, he wasn’t about to complain if this was what Arthur needed now. There were even a few nights when Merlin would sit on Arthur’s bed and talk with him well into the late hours, and the sorcerer would accidentally fall asleep in some ridiculously uncomfortable position beside him. The servants had stopped coming to get Arthur in the mornings, and so no one else ever knew, and the two of them did not mention it aloud but only let it bring them closer.

At the end of ten weeks, Arthur’s smiles were almost what they had been before the final battle. Everyone in the citadel and those who heard of it outside were grateful to the famous servant-turned-sorcerer who had always been able to work his magic on the king’s life. Merlin recognized their joy and used it, dragging Arthur into the Lower Town to see the prosperity that was increasing there. 

He smiled when a group of tiny children sheepishly offered Arthur little gifts of acorns and wildflowers, having been told by their mothers that the handsome king loved all the children in the land and believing it in a way only children could. Arthur may not have his own son, Merlin thought, but he bore the burden of fatherhood for a whole kingdom of loving children, and he bore it well. The once self-conscious young king now only hesitated awkwardly for a moment before bending down to wrap his strong arms around all the tiny boys and girls. He did not stop smiling for hours afterward, and therefore neither did Merlin.

The day after, Merlin entered his chambers and found him already up and dressed.

“There you are,” came the strong voice he felt he hadn’t heard in too long, booming and impatient. “Where the hell have you been? I’m starving and the servants won’t bring breakfast until they know you’re here. It’s like everyone in this castle thinks you’re the king.”

“Maybe they all just like me better because I’m nicer,” he replied evenly, pulling out the chair closest to him.

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“And who said that?” 

“Just last night Gwaine was telling everyone what a great friend I am after I stopped you from making the knights train in the pouring rain for the fifth time in one day.”

“Gwaine was drunk and you’d also just bought him another tankard. He’d have praised a street mouse if it’d given him more mead. And even though Morgana’s threat is gone, that’s no excuse for the knights to grow stagnant; we’ll never know when another threat could rise up against us and we must be ready to defend our people.”

Spoken like the old Arthur, Merlin thought triumphantly but didn’t say aloud.

“Perhaps you’re just jealous,” he pointed out instead, as a knock sounded at the door, predictably announcing the breakfast.

“Jealous you have the approval of a tavern full of drunkards?” Arthur returned, setting aside the documents he’d been holding as two maids entered with steaming plates. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin.”

Merlin inhaled sharply in mock offense.

“I am very clever,” he retaliated with false self-importance, while the smell of sausages and fresh bread filling his nostrils. “I never have been, nor shall I ever be, ridiculous, my lord, and I’m offended you still think I am.”

At that moment, he distractedly tried to pull an empty cup toward himself with his magic, realizing only after he’d knocked it over that one of the girls had filled it with juice already.

They both leapt up to avoid the mess getting on their clothes, and it was only when Arthur slapped Merlin across the back of his head soundly that the warlock felt his master might finally be all right again.

All the rest of the day, Merlin payed closer attention to his king and recognized the old Arthur really had returned at last. Though grief had shadowed his expressive eyes and taken some of the color from his skin, he was nonetheless as dynamic and bold as he ever had been. Worries of what might happen dissipated from Merlin’s mind after so long, and when their dinner was over and Arthur’s chambers were quiet, he commented, trying to be unobvious,

“You seem better, my lord.”

Arthur looked up from a scroll he’d been examining, a faint light of surprise in his face as he considered his friend’s implications. Then he smiled genuinely and spoke with conviction.

“I am. Thank you, Merlin.”

“I can go, if you’d like,” Merlin told him lightly, knowing he would understand what he meant.

It was up to Arthur now, whether or not Merlin stayed and invaded his life so meticulously. If he no longer needed it and desired his independence back, the warlock was willing to allow him that, to take a step back and resume their old friendship’s habits.

“Are you tired?” was Arthur’s reply, and he wasn’t quite sure whether he meant just now, or in general, so he answered for both.

“No.”

“Then stay,” Arthur said as he resumed reading the document, and for a moment Merlin thought he might not have understood after all.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

Arthur looked up again, a warmth in his gaze the sorcerer had never quite been able to decipher despite knowing him so well. He had only ever looked at Merlin that way, though—he knew that much, and held onto it.

“Merlin,” the king said, quietly with a patient smile, “stay.”

Merlin did.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you liked this story! I haven’t written for anything other than my own work for a very long time, so this was really refreshing, just revisiting Merlin’s perspective. It felt like visiting an old friend I haven’t seen in a while and I loved it. <3 Thanks so much for reading! The second part of this series will be posted soon!


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